


We're not broken, just bent

by sullacat



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Boyfriends, Community: kink_bingo, M/M, Scars, Vanilla Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-14
Updated: 2013-06-14
Packaged: 2017-12-14 22:19:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/842005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sullacat/pseuds/sullacat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint's body was a roadmap of poor decisions and self-sacrifice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We're not broken, just bent

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Kink Bingo 2012 *cough*. Yay for Amnesty period! (Vanilla kink & Scars) 
> 
> Thanks for Kinderjedi for looking over this for me! ♥♥♥

Clint's body was a roadmap of poor decisions and self-sacrifice. 

There was a story there, one that Steve was slowly learning. Neither man enjoyed dwelling in the past, not while the present was filled with work and play and Avengers and SHIELD and the two of them falling in love and getting to know each other better, growing closer. 

But four months into this 'thing' between them, and there were still subjects they tiptoed around, by silent mutual agreement. Clint's dad. Peggy.

There had been progress. Steve had gotten to the point where he could talk about the Commandos without his heart aching for hours afterward, and just last week Clint related a story about his brother, the two of them cooking a birthday breakfast for their mother once, when he was a little boy. Steve could tell the memory made him happy, even if his face clouded over afterward, replaced by a smile when Steve kissed his temple. 

Two men, still injured, still scarred inside - but healing. 

Right now, those weren't the injuries Steve was worried about. Standing in the doorway of Clint's bathroom, he shook his head as he watched Clint use scissors to cut away the last of his black undershirt. The gash on his shoulder, at least five inches, looked bad, still oozing bright red blood. "That needs stitches."

"Nope."

Times like this Steve regretted the fact that he was technically Clint's superior at work. It was hard when Clint took advantage of that and took off before heading to Medical like he should after a mission as hard as that one, _knowing_ that Steve wasn't going to drag him back kicking and screaming. Clint had taken the lion's share of the attack today, culminating in a fall from thirty feet that knocked the wind out of him - and Steve, who'd witnessed it, helpless.

"C'mon Barton," Steve crossed his arms, signalling some dissatisfaction, hoping this would be enough to get Clint's attention. "That's gonna get infected. For me," he added, his final sign of desperation. 

Something in his tone must have gotten through. "I've had worse," Clint told him as he undressed, their eyes meeting in the reflection of the bathroom mirror.

"I can see that," Steve replied, glancing at the myriad of markings all over Clint's body. "Then let me do something."

Another long moment passed as they looked at each other, before Clint turned around, facing him. "I'm gonna shower first, maybe when I'm done." Kicking at the medicine cabinet with his foot, he glanced back. "Got some supplies in there, if you wanna look," he added before sliding into the steamy water.

Steve watched this, nodding to himself. Normally he'd hope for an invitation to join Clint in the shower, but something felt off right now and he wondered if maybe Clint needed some time alone. Reaching under the sink, he pulled out the small medical kit, stashed with all sorts of pain killers and battlefield first aid. Steve made a small noise as he went through it, not surprised. Clint's disdain for SHIELD Medical was legendary, and now he saw that the man had half an Emergency Room in his bathroom. 

Ten minutes later, Clint emerged, naked as the day he was born. Steve was sitting on Clint's bed, and as Clint walked by he touched Steve's face. A reassuring gesture, wordlessly letting Steve know that he was okay. It was enough for Steve. "Ready to patch me up, Captain?" Clint asked, that familiar smirk back on his face. 

"Almost," he began, handing Clint some pain meds and a glass of water. "Now lay down." Once Clint was laying on his stomach, Steve knelt behind him, rocking on his heels. The wound looked a little better now that it was clean, and Steve was pleased to see the edges weren't too jagged. Pushing the edges together, he grabbed four of the steristrips and secured them onto Clint's skin. "That'll do, I guess," he finally said once the wound was closed to his satisfaction. "But it's gonna scar."

Clint snorted, stretching. "Does it look like that bothers me, Steve? I mean, look at me..."

Steve didn't answer, at least not with words. Instead he reached for some massage oil Clint kept on his nightstand, warming his hands with the lightly scented lotion. Careful not to hit today's injuries, Steve began rubbing the muscles of Clint's back, feeling the man under him begin to relax. 

The room was quiet and dark. Bending his head, Steve' lips brushed against the back of Clint's neck. He loved this feeling - taking care of this man, proud and independent and hard-headed. 

And _his_. Steve's fingers traced along several deep gashes that ran north-south along Clint's shoulder blade, clearly several years old and never properly looked after. "Where did these come from?" he asked in a low voice, curious. 

Clint turned his head, sounding sleepy. "Um... those are Afghanistan, I think." 

A small raised circle on the top of his left shoulder. "Natasha?" Clint gave him a little nod and a chuckle. Steve had thought it was a joke at first, until he checked out their files and sure enough - Romanoff had shot Barton, taking him down in order to save his life when they were on the run together. 

There were others. Deep scratches and scrapes, some of them very old, older than Steve wanted to think about. "Surgery?" Steve said, touching what looked like an old incision on his back, near the kidneys. 

It was a moment before Clint spoke, long enough that Steve thought he might have fallen asleep. But then he heard "Sort of. Stab wound when I was sixteen. The carnival ladies patched me up. Did a decent job, too." Clint didn't say anymore, and Steve didn't press the subject, not yet. What he'd shared already was enough. "My turn to rub you, okay?"

"You think you can try and sleep a little?" Steve asked, rolling off Clint's legs and settling on the bed next to him, his head propped up on an elbow. "Was a long day."

Clint blinked at him, weariness evident in his eyes and for a moment it hit Steve that Clint wouldn't be able to do this forever. Not like he'd have to quit tomorrow, not for several years even. But at some point Clint would just get too old and his body would give in, and he'd have to stop fighting alongside him. The thought hurt, though if it meant less injuries for Clint... Steve leaned forward, brushing their lips together. "Go to sleep, Barton."

"Yes sir," he heard Clint murmur and Steve smiled, feeling Clint reaching for his hand, not letting go. His free hand began stroking Clint's hair, playing with the soft blond strands until he heard the light snores, Clint's even breathing that told him the man was finally resting. One more kiss to his forehead and Steve stood. 

No, this stubborn brat of his might not want to go to the medical unit to get checked out. That didn't mean Clint wasn't going to get taken care of, the best way Steve knew how.

There was a mission report that needed finishing, before Coulson came looking for it. There was dinner to get started and some weapons to clean and Steve would have all of it done before Clint woke. 

Because he loved him.


End file.
